


Cause And Cure For Worry

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Eavesdropping, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, Movie Reference, Pining, Some Fluff, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 02:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9945659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: In Rome is where it all started. But it is human nature to worry about something you do not understand, leading to confusion before everything comes to a head.---Or five times confusion reigns between the boys, leaving things unresolved, and the one time they address it like they should.





	

i.

 

Napoleon is sprawled on the ground, wet and caked in mud all over, head pounding after getting kicked and hit over and over with a tire iron. His fuzzy mind wonders how on earth his head had not been split open by it. And it is a real miracle he is still alive. A real damn miracle indeed. 

When Alexander Vinciguerra had aimed his gun at him, Napoleon had thought his time was up. That he would see the pearly gates next, or worse still, the other dreadful option. But he was somehow spared when Illya had shown up like some kind of superhero and had thrown that huge motorcycle at the Italian before gutting the man with his knife. Of course, that hadn’t been his first time seeing Illya demonstrate his incredible strength. Him grabbing and tearing that boot off of Gaby’s car before hurling it at them in Berlin had left Napoleon awed, and at some level, a little turned on. He had spent a couple of nights musing the idea that Illya Kuryakin might not be entirely human. He’s all seething power and rage. But he reconsiders this when he sees a trembling Gaby not a few feet away from him in Illya’s comforting arms. He is smiling down at her, and in Illya’s eyes, there is no fury, just pure softness Napoleon has never seen before. Illya might have given him that similar look, although it was more worry than anything when he had freed him from Rudi’s torture chamber, not a few hours back. Napoleon wonders if working with them for the past week or so had changed Illya somehow. Or maybe, it is Gaby herself that had brought that easy smile from Illya. He knows Illya is smitten with her from the start, and what he is seeing right at that moment is a clear indication of it.

A sudden rush of irrational tenderness for this man rises up in Napoleon, the day’s events perhaps leaving him emotional. _It’s easy to like the man_ , he thinks, although later feels it must be his head injury that is messing with his mind.

“You doing okay, Cowboy?”

He is startled when Illya asks him this later.

They had obliterated Victoria Vinciguerra’s plans, the mission deemed a categorical success. Napoleon himself had gotten a whole lot of praise from Waverly and was in the medical bay of the aircraft carrier, lying on a small cot after getting himself checked by UNCLE’s medic team, enjoying the quiet time alone, resting his sore and battered body, when Illya had approached him.

“What did the medics say?”

Napoleon quickly sits upright and frowns at him. He is further surprised when Illya takes a seat right next to him. The KGB spy obviously does not mind breaching people’s personal space. Still wary, Napoleon shifts a little to make some room between the tall Russian and him.

“You are concerned?” he asks eventually.

Illya does not respond at first, but after a while, he does a little eye roll, clearly exasperated, and Napoleon chuckles. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I saw how you were hit. It is no good to have a head injury,” Illya quickly answers.

“No, it never is.”

And then, without any warning, Illya leans in closer towards his American partner and places his fingers against the pulse in Napoleon’s throat. Napoleon’s first instinct is to pull away, alarmed at their closeness, but he remains still and wonders what is going on in his partner’s head.

“You okay, Peril? Because I think you falling off that bike has done some major damage to your brain.”

Illya huffs. “Shut up. Your pulse was erratic when I first checked them after we escaped from Rudi.”

Napoleon could only blink his eyes at Illya.

_So it’s just not Gaby he’s worried about. Interesting._

He then cocks one eyebrow at the brooding man.

“And now? What is your verdict, Doctor Kuryakin?”

He almost cringes at his own sentence but Illya seems oblivious, only nods at Napoleon.

“Is better now, I think.”

Illya’s touch is warm against his skin, the contact still there, unwavering. Napoleon’s lips quirk.

“You sure have gone soft, Peril.”

As if only realising what he had done, Illya backs away from Napoleon. Trying his best to restrain his emotion at Napoleon’s words and his smug look, because Napoleon had been right, he only scoffs. When he had seen the man strapped in Rudi’s chair, and then when he got hit repeatedly by Alexander Vinciguerra, Illya’s blood had boiled. He could not understand why it had angered him so much and is still having a hard time figuring why he actually bothers to check on this cocky American sitting next to him. It’s not in his mission protocol to get attached to this enemy-turned-partner of his. And they are certainly not friends. Not wanting to dwell on it anymore, Illya quickly stands up.

“I’ll go now,” he says, clearing his throat, looks away from Napoleon for a second before eyeing him again. “Until our debrief later, Solo.”

Napoleon nods and smiles, gives Illya a salute. When he finally disappears from his sight, Napoleon lies down on the cot again and sighs. He thinks about his arms around Illya’s limp body when he’d pulled him out of the water, thinks about his pounding heart when Illya had saved him from Rudi, and if his heart had done some weird summersaults when Illya had touched him earlier, he is extremely glad Illya had not noticed it. Because then he would have to explain that it had not been due to Rudi’s doing but the damn Russian himself.

 

ii.

 

Countless missions after Rome, Napoleon and Illya still bicker like children, and Gaby is the unfortunate peacemaker every time their arguments get too intense. But as time goes by, it’s a familiarity Illya’s gotten so used to, he knows he would not trade what they have for anything else in the world. What annoys him though is Napoleon’s habit of getting into trouble during missions, and he can’t help but worry even if he tries his best not to let it affect him.

But in Turin, Napoleon is involved in a honeypot mission for the first time, and Illya’s anxiety doubles over. Napoleon is surprised, thinking Illya would be appalled at his willingness to seduce a known homosexual, rather than be concerned for his well-being. He then teases the Russian, saying it’s sweet of him to worry so much, but when he notices Illya’s creased forehead and his fingers trembling with nerves despite his best assurances, he resorts to something he has never done before. Throwing caution to the wind, he grasps both of Illya’s arms in a tight hold, shakes him a little, hoping he could convince him enough.

“Listen, it will be fine. _I_ will be fine. Trust me.”

Illya finally relents, hoping Napoleon is right. But that had been hours ago. Now, way after the time limit given to him, Napoleon has yet to return and this sets Illya’s nerves alight once again. Frowning, he checks his watch and notes the time. 

“Solo is late. Something is wrong,” he says, voice tensed. 

Gaby, on the other hand, is happily sipping her drink next to him on the sofa of their hotel suite.

“You should stop worrying,” she says after she’s unable to handle Illya’s agitated look and the restless tick of his fingers a second longer. “He’ll be back soon enough.”

A bottle of wine in one hand, with the other holding on to her now empty glass, Gaby offers Illya a drink but he just shakes his head at her for the umpteenth time that night. Annoyed, she shrugs at him, pours herself another round before letting the drink slide down her throat in one effortless swig.

“You sure you don’t want one? It’ll make you feel better.”

Her futile attempt, however, is met with another firm refusal.

“Oh, well, at least I didn’t waste this perfectly good wine Solo got for us.”

“It is his way to distract us,” Illya grumbles. He wants to add _‘to distract us from worrying about him’_ but decides not to, fearing Gaby might cotton on the real reason he is being so restless. He hates it when Napoleon goes for lone assignments, and a honeypot mission like tonight just makes it worse.

“It’s been three hours. Cowboy is taking a long time to extract some easy information from the mark.”

Putting down both the wine bottle and her glass on the coffee table in front of them, Gaby throws Illya a huge grin.

“Amazing,” she says while shaking his head at him. “And Napoleon still has no clue.”

Illya isn’t sure if Gaby is drunk or whether she is just slurring words, but the look she’s giving him at that moment tells Illya Gaby’s quip is meant to goad him into telling her what he has been hiding all along. And that is his pent up feelings for their American partner. He moves to stand, eager to get away from Gaby’s scrutiny but she stops him before he could, tugs at his shirt sleeve to prevent his escape.

“Clearly, you have strong feelings for Solo, and I've seen the way he looks at you with his dopey eyes when he thinks you’re not looking, yet you act like you can’t stand to be around each other. I think you both need to man up. Admit your damn feelings!”

“There is nothing to admit,” Illya argues but Gaby just rolls her eyes at him. “I’m not stupid, Illya. This huffing and worrying whenever Solo goes on missions like tonight? It’s getting really old.”

Illya would have waved off Gaby’s too right accusations if he isn’t worrying too much. In fact, he knows Gaby is too intelligent not to notice the sort of denial he’s been having for the past few months. It’s all coming to a head. But fortunately, before he could explain everything to her, the hotel door swings open and Napoleon walks in with a rather surprised look on his face.

“So, everyone’s still awake?”

If Illya had wanted to reprimand him for being late and making him unnecessarily worry, he could have, but all is forgotten the moment he sees Napoleon’s disheveled state. He is bleeding from his hairline, his suit ripped and dirty, with an obvious bruise that looks extremely painful forming at his jaw.

“What the hell happened?!” Gaby exclaims as they both jump to his side.

“Our target’s lover didn’t take being jilted too well. He jumped me while I was leaving our rendezvous point, hit my head with a beer bottle. We got into a scuffle but I managed to shake him off,” Napoleon explains as he staggers to the middle of the room.

“Looks like maybe you didn’t do such a good job,” Illya chastises his injured partner, earning him angry glares. Realising he’s being hard on Napoleon, Illya quickly tries to make amends.

“Are you all right?”

Despite his obvious worry, Napoleon could sense the suppressed anger in Illya’s voice as he crowds him and Napoleon takes a step back, so he could properly look him in the eye. “Told you I’d be fine, and I _am_ fine, it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Illya’s demeanor straightaway changes again, his previously concerned eyes grow steely hard, and then he is growling at the American, gesturing one finger at his bruised jaw.

“This is not fine! I think you played your role _too_ convincingly. It’s your own fault this happened to you.”

Napoleon shoots Illya a hurt look.

“Now which one is it, Peril? Did I or didn’t I do a splendid job? Or are you just being mean?” he huffs. 

At that point, Gaby has had enough, so she drags Napoleon away from Illya, but when Illya follows suit, she stops him.

“No. For the moment, I think it’s best you leave him alone.”

“Gaby,” Illya tries to reason, voice apologetic, but his eyes are on Napoleon who has disappeared into his room. “I did not mean it.”

Gaby only shrugs, mouths _'it’s for the best’_ , before closing the door in front of Illya’s face, leaving him to ponder the cause of his actions alone. 

  


***

 

An hour later, Illya enters Napoleon’s room to check on him. Gaby had left him alone a while back, had warned Illya not to disturb him, but Illya had been restless after their so-called argument, he simply had to see him. And now he’s standing by his bedside, watching him sleep. 

He does not know what to do with his feelings when it comes to Napoleon. The man just infuriates him and yet, he sometimes turn Illya into a blushing fool whenever he shamelessly flirts with him. Illya always brushes it off, always ignore the tightness in his chest whenever they get too close, but he cannot ignore his worry every damn time Napoleon gets hurt. Just like tonight. And he could not hide it, especially not from Gaby. She sees right through him and this really irks Illya. How he’d managed to be partnered with two infuriating people who have now become more than just mere partners, he will never know.

Sighing, Illya runs tentative fingers lightly on Napoleon’s bruised jaw, careful not to wake him. But when Napoleon stirs suddenly, Illya quickly pulls his hand away and is about to leave when he hears it. 

“Illya,” Napoleon mumbles his name and for a moment Illya thinks he is awake. But Napoleon’s eyes are still closed when he says his name again. Is Napoleon having a dream about him? His gut churns at the idea, leaving him confused. But then when Napoleon repeats his name again followed by _‘you’re so easy to love’_ , Illya is left completely stunned. 

”Wow, who would’ve known? Solo talks in his sleep?”

Illya whirls around, surprised to find Gaby leaning at the door. What’s worse, she is grinning from ear to ear. 

“Must be the head injury. The medication. Made him delirious,” Illya tries to reason out what he’d heard, perhaps more to himself than Gaby, but Gaby easily dismisses it. 

“You heard him, Illya. Dreaming or not, it must have meant something,” she starts. “Napoleon’s a smart man.”

A smart man? What smart man talks in his sleep and confesses to something knowing Illya has no chance to say what and how he feels in return? That’s not smart. That is being completely selfish and manipulative. But he remains tight-lipped, doesn’t say a word, continues to stare at the sleeping man before him. Despite the injuries on his face, Napoleon still looks handsome, and _fuck_ , just looking at him at that moment makes Illya want to vent his frustrations. Had Napoleon’s flirtations mean more than just the man having some fun at his expense? 

“If you don’t feel the same, you should tell him,” Gaby suddenly says and this hits a bad nerve in Illya, a very bad nerve. 

“Stop assuming things.”

Gaby gasps as she cowers back from Illya’s angry glare. Feeling sorry that she might have pushed him too far, she tries to smooth the situation but Illya stops her before she could.

“This _will_ be forgotten,” he says quietly as he walks past her by the doorway.

But Illya knows it isn’t the case. Because what Napoleon had said, regardless if it’s only a dream, stays with Illya for the rest of the night. 

  


iii.

 

In Paris, Napoleon is to steal a blueprint from a former government scientist, whose plan if materialised, will cause friction between France and the rest of Europe. The mission sounds simple enough. It’s nothing Napoleon isn’t familiar with. But the operation meets a snag when their communication devices fail to work the night he is to break into the scientist’s mansion. Wanting to work with the timeframe given to them, Napoleon decides he’ll go ahead with their plans, despite Illya’s protests.

Fifteen minutes after breaking in, he comes to the room that houses the very important document, smiles at the sight in front of him and immediately gets to work, all the while hearing static through his earpiece as he fiddles with the safe he is trying to crack open. 

“Remember, Cowboy. The security monitors will only be offline for approximately twenty minutes.”

Napoleon glances at his watch. There is still plenty of time for him to complete his task as Illya’s stern reminder rings in his ear. He hadn’t been too happy letting Napoleon go, and thinking about it makes Napoleon grin. Suddenly, he is missing his partner’s presence. Letting out a quiet huff, he focuses on his task again, but then seconds later, Illya’s voice fleets through his earpiece.

“I hate him when he’s right.”

“I think we both can agree that you definitely _do not_ hate him.”

Napoleon frowns. That is Illya. Complaining about someone to Gaby. He knows he should make it known that their communication link is now working and that he could hear them perfectly well, but figures there is no real harm if he waits just a little while longer and listen in to this very interesting topic his partners are having.

“Sure he could do his job without supervision, but Cowboy attracts attention like fly is attracted to rotten meat.”

So, they are talking about him. Napoleon rolls his eyes at that. Obviously, Gaby’s habit has rubbed off on him. He opens his mouth, is about to protest, saying how deeply hurt he is at Illya’s uncouth accusation when what he hears next piques his curiosity.

“I think you like Solo a whole lot more than you know.”

“This is not the time to have this discussion.”

“You always worry about him. How can that be not liking the other?”

“Worrying for partners is normal. I worry if you go on lone missions as well. Same thing for Solo. Does not mean I like him.”

Napoleon grins upon hearing Illya’s agitated tone as he continues explaining himself to Gaby. 

“But what about the jealousy? This was so obvious in Turin, Illya. You could not stop worrying the entire time he was with that mark he’d to seduce.”

Illya was jealous? Was that why Illya behaved weirdly and berated him for no reason? Why did he not notice it? Cocking an eyebrow, Napoleon listens in with more intent.

“I _do not_ get jealous. You are mistaken,” Illya growls and Napoleon cannot help but chuckle at Illya’s defensive reply. When silence ensues, he wonders if they had heard him then, but what Illya says next, voice taut with tension, has his heart skipping a beat.

“I do not like it when Cowboy goes in blind. We should have fixed the comm link before letting him go. Waverly should have allowed me to go as his backup.”

 _‘It’s just stealing some plans, Illya. I’ve done this a hundred times before’_ , Napoleon wants to say when Gaby’s talking again.

“See, this isn’t the behaviour of someone that doesn’t like somebody. In fact, this is the complete opposite of it. It shows you care for him. Deeply.”

Napoleon hears Illya snorts, the sound almost affectionate, it has him smiling again.

“You are _too_ quick with assumptions.”

“I’m not! I just don’t see why it’s difficult for you to admit you like him, that’s all.”

There Gaby goes again, being all smart and cunning, sometimes too cunning for her own good. But silently, Napoleon is cheering her on. He could just imagine Illya’s irritated look; his rigid posture, his tightly clenched fists, his furrowed brows. Oh, how he’d love to be there just to see it with his own eyes. Not that he hasn’t because ruffling the Russian’s feathers is his favourite hobby and every single time, he’d managed to elicit the reaction he wants from him.

“So, maybe, when Solo gets back, you could have this talk with him.”

Apparently, Gaby is not done yet. But when Illya says an affirmative _’No’_ , Napoleon’s heart sinks. His fingers are rotating the dial of the safe, eager to complete his mission, but currently, his concentration is broken. Damn it, why do they have to have this conversation now? Not that they would if he is in that room with them. Illya probably would vehemently deny every little thing he had said to Gaby earlier and probably would punch Napoleon square in the face if he ever brings this topic up. Shrugging off the thoughts in his head, blocking whatever else he is hearing, Napoleon quickly focuses on his task at hand again. Minutes later, he is already grabbing the blueprint he’d been entrusted to steal because he is good at what he does, and while making his way out of the huge mansion, teetering along the darkened hallways, he hears Illya’s next argument and it almost made him falter in his tracks.

“Truth is Cowboy is a terrible spy. I hated him, hated working with him. He has no loyalty to no one other than to himself. This is the truth in Rome,” Illya says, as if this is an important fact he has to let Gaby know, and then pauses. Napoleon hears a sharp intake of breath. Illya’s thinking of an end to that sentence.

“And what do you think of him now?” Gaby asks.

There is deadly silence as Illya contemplates, and this makes Napoleon nervous. He has reached the window of his escape route, jumps out, and just as he’s straightening himself after landing on his feet, he hears it, the croaking voice of Illya’s admission.

“Now I hate that I don’t hate him anymore. Not even close. Not even at all. It is frustrating. Cowboy is really frustrating.”

“Frustrating, yes, but you _do_ like him, don’t you?” Gaby says, voice hopeful, but somehow Napoleon is unsure if he wants to know Illya’s answer. Unable to maintain his silence much longer, he coughs loud enough to make his presence known.

“Cowboy?”

“Hey, can you both hear me? Our communication just came back on,” he says in a practised tone of nonchalance, _lies_ , because he has heard enough and is eager to change their topic of discussion.

“You got the plans?” Illya asks. Despite the question, Napoleon could hear the worry in his voice though he makes it a point to ignore that fact.

“Yes, and I’m on way to the hotel. Will be there in an hour or so.”

“That’s good, Solo,” Gaby cuts in. “Are you all right?”

Why is he suddenly disappointed that it had not been Illya to ask him that question? Has he grown accustomed to the strings of _‘Are you all right, Cowboy?’ ‘Are you hurt?’ ‘Did you get shot?’_ , going so far as to seek them out from the Russian? And damn, since when has it mattered so much to him?

“Cowboy, are you all right?”

Napoleon groans when he hears it, the sentence he had wanted to hear, and then it dawns on him how deep he has fallen into trouble; the epiphany that he is having some kind of emotional attachment for Illya. The revelation leaves him reeling, both in surprise and horror at once. 

After a momentary pause, he gives Illya a quick affirmative before jumping into his getaway car and driving off. 

Later that night, as he lies alone on his bed staring at the bedroom ceiling, Napoleon decides to blame his panicking on him having an adrenaline rush. And he’s certain he will forget the entire thing tomorrow, and all will be normal again. Napoleon knows this. 

Feeling a little at ease, he finally succumbs to sleep.

 

iv.

 

In Geneva, Napoleon gets drunk.

Illya had warned him not to drink too much, because it’s never a good idea no matter what the occasion is, and tonight had been no different. Waverly had thrown a party of sorts, wanting to celebrate their fifth successful mission in a row, and after having a few glasses too many, Illya had to practically carry Napoleon after he almost landed on his face during their walk back to their hotel room.

“Are you all right?”

Napoleon hums at Illya’s familiar question. “I think I’ll get a major headache in the morning, but what’s new?”

The Russian makes a small noise of agreement, and despite his drunken state, Napoleon is quite certain he had just seen Illya smile.

“You’re thinking about something,” he mutters.

Napoleon drunk means he will talk endlessly, not that he doesn’t when he is sober. But when his inhibitions are lowered, the words that come out from him usually amuses Illya to a point he will indulge Napoleon, no matter how exasperating he could be. 

The Russian is unlacing his partner’s shoes after he had laid him down on his bed. He had just put away Napoleon’s right one and was doing his left when he stops and eyes Napoleon who is currently looking at him with a little grin on his face.

“What?” he says and Napoleon’s grin just gets wider.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Why do you think I’m thinking?” Illya asks.

He could deny Napoleon and tell him he’s wrong. Because he isn’t really thinking of Napoleon and how he looks then, with only his dress shirt on, rumpled and sleeves rolled up to his elbows, buttons halfway undone, revealing too much skin for Illya’s eyes to feast on. His hair is messy, and Illya wants to brush the errant strands off his forehead. No, Illya’s not thinking of that at all.

“You looked up. Usually, when people are thinking, they look up somehow. Why do people do that?”

Illya is amused at how Napoleon’s mind work sometimes and this is one of those moments. And is he supposed to answer his partner, who looks like he’s waiting for an actual answer? Determining why people look up when thinking does not seem to be a matter of earth-shattering priority.

“I don’t know why that is,” Illya eventually says when he sees Napoleon pouting. He lets go of Napoleon’s ankle he had been holding on to, straightens his legs on the bed and just when he is about to leave, Napoleon, somehow, catches him by the wrist.

“Come on, tell me. What were you thinking about? When you were removing my shoes?”

Illya lets out a sigh. “Not thinking of anything.” 

Napoleon whines and then he’s squinting at Illya with a quizzical look.

“You’ve lovely eyes, Peril, have I ever told you that?” 

Illya tries to remain impassive though he wonders what game Napoleon is playing. As he contemplates, Napoleon’s fingers on him tighten, his thumb caressing Illya’s exposed skin just above his sleeve ever so slightly, the action sending little shivers down Illya's back. And Illya really should back away before he does something stupid. Like leaning down and kissing that mouth he has dreamed of kissing before.

“Solo,” he says, slowly removes Napoleon’s hold on him. The rather disappointed look on Napoleon, when Illya starts to move away, wavers his stand. Napoleon looks like a little boy, pouting, wanting something from Illya. Wanting something he probably does not want. Or need. And Illya knows he is just seeing things. He knows Napoleon well enough. Because Napoleon does not want him like how he wants the American. Despite hearing his _’accidental’_ confession a couple of months back, Illya refuses to confront Napoleon about it, refuses to acknowledge his feelings are recruited. Napoleon probably had no idea what he was saying then, Illya is certain.

“Sleep, Cowboy,” he then mutters, wills himself to resist temptation, and Napoleon falls back on the pillows and sighs. His eyes are closed, falls asleep almost immediately and Illya regrets what he had done. That incredible urge in him is still there, however; of wanting to reach out and touch, wanting to run his fingers through Napoleon’s hair. He wants to crawl into his arms, to hold him, despite the bitter smell of alcohol on his breath. He wants to kiss and be kissed in return. It is all Illya wants. And it is starting to get worse each day. 

But he does none of those things because Gaby suddenly appears in the doorway and smiles at the sight before her. There is a knowing look on her face and if she had felt like saying what was on her mind then, she doesn’t say a thing. 

“He’s asleep.”

Illya glances at Gaby.

“That last bottle of wine might have been a bad idea for Cowboy.”

“Yes, unfortunately. But I’m sure he’ll be fine in the morning,” Gaby assures Illya.

Illya nods and then steps away from the bed. Maybe it’s good Gaby had come. Or else things between Napoleon and him might just turn into a complication he does not need. Not that things between them aren’t complicated enough.

 

v.

 

In Athens, the three of them are forced to stay in a dingy hotel much to Napoleon’s chagrin. But it could have been worse.

Currently, he is lying on his bed with his head pillowed by Gaby’s lap. Her fingers are threading his hair gently, smoothing his curls and humming what suspiciously sounds like a Russian lullaby, while another set of hands, very large nice hands, are cleaning the multiple wounds on his cheeks and forehead. Napoleon should really enjoy the treatment being lavished on him, but the circumstance of his current situation prevents himself from doing so.

“You just had to start a fight with those men, didn’t you? You knew our cover had been blown but instead of just leaving, you had to take them on just to prove what a smart ass you could be.”

“There is no point you telling him this. He is ridiculous. A stubborn man, and a fool as well,” Illya cuts in, seemingly adding further insult to his injury, and if he isn’t hurting so much, he would tell both his partners off. But then his head is pounding, his whole body aching, so he lets them have their way. There is no point in arguing because he will definitely lose. Closing his eyes, Napoleon almost drifts off seconds later but winces when Illya dabs the cut on his upper lip particularly hard, winces even more when he starts pressing a cool cloth on his badly bruised cheek.

“That hurts,” he moans but Illya ignores his protests, proceeds to clean Napoleon’s cuts and bruises on his knuckles next, at the same time checking if perhaps he had managed to break any bones. The look on his face, however, tells Napoleon he is rather relieved everything is intact. And despite his obvious anger that Napoleon had managed to get himself injured again, Illya’s being incredibly gentle, bandaging his injury with care and tenderness, Napoleon swears Illya must have somehow mistaken him for Gaby.

“I’m not gonna break,” he reasons, tries to pacify the scowling Russian, but Illya carries on without saying a word. Once he is certain all of Napoleon’s injury have been taken care of, Illya moves to put away the soaked cloth and medical kit in the bathroom. And then Napoleon is left alone with Gaby, who is now staring down at him with a knowing look.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Napoleon starts, his voice weary. “But I don’t need to hear it, do I?”

Somewhat amused at Napoleon’s attempt to read her mind, Gaby only smiles.

“No, I’m not going to reprimand you anymore, Solo. The damage is done. Although I’m not sure Illya’s done with you, not just yet.”

“You can’t be serious?” Napoleon laments and then Illya’s answering his dreaded question.

“This could have been avoided.”

Napoleon at once glances down upon hearing that deep rumbly voice, sees Illya standing at the doorway with arms folded across his chest, an unhappy look still adorning his face.

“But, better me than either of you, right?”

“No! It is never better!” Illya snaps. He has certainly lost the calm facade he’d been putting on. 

“Boys, _please_. This is not the time,” Gaby interferes, not liking where the conversation is going. Certain that neither will back down from the argument, she tries to placate Napoleon, thinking it will be easier, but unfortunately, that isn’t the case. Even injured, it’s clear Napoleon is not in the mood to be coddled.

“Look, the damage is done. So can we drop the subject now, please?” Napoleon sighs in protest, eyes pleading when he looks at his friends, especially to Gaby, hoping for some sympathy, but is shocked when she decides to turn on him.

“Sometimes I feel you enjoy getting yourself hurt like this.”

And with that, Napoleon has had enough. He wriggles out of Gaby’s hold, so he could prop himself up on both his elbows.

“I _had_ to do something. Those men were insulting Peril,” he says, explaining himself to her, but his eyes are upon Illya who looks righteously angry.

“I could handle it. You just don’t trust me.”

“Of course, _you_ could handle it. But _I_ couldn’t stand hearing it!” Napoleon exclaims, sitting up abruptly as he tries to prove his point, but groans out loud when the sudden movement causes his sore ribs to hurt more than ever before. He curls forward and slumps down once again on the bed, wincing into a fetal position, hiding his face from both Illya and Gaby, not wanting them to see him grimacing. But Illya is upon him in a matter of seconds, and if Napoleon had not hidden his face from them, he would not have missed Illya nudging Gaby out of his way in his haste to attend to the American. Gaby almost told Illya off for his behaviour but keeps her mouth shut when she sees Illya shaking his head at her.

“Don’t,” Illya mouths and Gaby, at once, pulls him away from Napoleon.

A few minutes later, Gaby has left them both alone in Napoleon’s room, after asking Illya to sort matters out with their injured friend.

“I’m tired of your antics. Both of you. I suggest you sort it out before I do something about it,” she had threatened.

He has been standing at the foot of Napoleon’s bed for a full minute in silence before realising Napoleon’s gaze is fixed on him.

“You okay?” he asks like he usually does when his partner gets hurt but Napoleon only waves him away.

“Go to bed, Peril. You’ve helped me enough.”

Illya gives a withering sigh. Instead of leaving like Napoleon had asked, he goes to sit beside his bewildered partner. The sight of that gauze on Napoleon’s forehead, the purpling bruise just underneath his left eye and jawline, then his injured hands, all bandaged up, reminds Illya of what had happened. His anger is still bubbling beneath the surface, angry at Napoleon, angry at himself because he had not done enough to prevent it. 

“Quit it, will you? Stop looking so guilty. Stop looking like I’d died,” Napoleon mutters and Illya just shakes his head ruefully.

“If you had, nothing will matter anymore.”

Napoleon’s heart flips at the words. He regards Illya for a moment, notices the tremor of Illya’s hands. Normally he would still the trembling with a tight grip between his own, but this time, Napoleon ignores it. 

“Go sleep, Peril. It’s late.”

“You should be the one resting, Cowboy. You’re hurt,” Illya offers, peering down at him with a concerned look. Despite Napoleon’s dismissive manner, Illya has not given up, still hovering by his side and when Napoleon tries to assure him again that he is fine, it sets Illya off.

“Maybe next time, Waverly shouldn’t assign you these cases if you could not handle a few slurs your way.”

Napoleon clicks his tongue disapprovingly, glares at the Russian in defiance.

“Those words had been for you, Illya, not me.”

“And this bothers you?”

_“Yes!”_

Napoleon remembers how the brawl had started. They were about to leave the club they had been surveilling, when a few patrons who had been ‘friends’ of Napoleon while being undercover started to throw insults their way after their cover had been blown, especially targeting Illya, calling him a _‘commie bastard_ ’ and a few other names Napoleon rather forget. He had been calm at first, ignoring the cruel words, had tried to block himself from getting affected by it, but in the end, he decided he had had enough. In anger, Napoleon had thrown the first punch and then all hell had broken loose.

“Napoleon.”

Illya calling his name brings Napoleon back to the present.

“What?”

“No one needs to get hurt because of me.”

Illya’s voice is small and this breaks Napoleon’s defences.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Peril.”

“Why? Is it because you care?”

“ _Yes_ , I do!”

Napoleon is aware that his voice had risen to a shout and Illya immediately averts his gaze away from him, suddenly unable to handle the American’s intense stare. He flinches when Napoleon touches his arm.

“Illya…”

“I don’t want you hurt because I also care, Solo. Do you not understand this?”

Napoleon’s mouth goes strangely dry to that so he says nothing in return. For the first time in his life, there are no witty comebacks, no smart reply that he could muster. It’s as if his ability to speak had been taken away from him. Illya had rendered him speechless. And he’s further muted when Illya reaches out to hold his chin between his fingers, tracing the bruises on his jaw and cheek while never taking his eyes off Napoleon.

They stay silent for a very long time until Illya breaks the awkward silence, gives Napoleon a frustrated sigh.

“I’ll go now,” he mutters, though he does not look at Napoleon when he says this. And when he turns to leave, Napoleon does not stop him, simply lets Illya go.

 

+1

 

In London is where things come to a head.

Napoleon is behind his desk in their office and Illya is sitting across him, eyeing him with a serious look. It is already late evening, and they are still in UNCLE’s HQ, completing their extra mission reports Waverly made them do after the unfortunate brawl Napoleon got himself into. And from where he is, Napoleon notices, somehow, that Illya’s eyes are bluer than he has ever seen them before, or maybe it is just his imagination.

“Are you all right, Cowboy?”

Napoleon doesn’t answer, continues staring at Illya.

“Solo, are you okay?” 

The way Illya is frowning at him tells Napoleon his partner might have repeated that question more than just once.

“I’m fine,” he finally answers, catching himself.

“You’ve been quiet all day. In fact, you have not spoken much since we returned from Athens. This is not you.”

Napoleon only nods because Illya is right. He had not felt like talking, especially after what had happened in Athens. 

“What you had said to me, back in Athens, did you mean it?”

Surprise at once shows on Illya’s face and he fidgets for a moment. He tears his gaze away from Napoleon, stares at the window for a long while before returning his attention at his partner. 

“I said a lot of things,” he says, pretends not to understand. “Which one?”

“The one that matters, Illya,” Napoleon calmly answers. He takes in a deep breath, repeats himself again. “Did you mean it?”

“Every word,” Illya admits, voice low, sounding almost timid. “You do not believe me?”

Napoleon had not noticed before, or at least had tried to ignore the fact that maybe his feelings for Illya had gone beyond just caring for the other. But what had happened in Athens, how he is willing to go to incredible lengths to protect Illya’s dignity, and the realisation that Illya feels the same, that he cares as well, had left him a little shaken. 

Because they care _too damn much_.

Standing on his feet, Napoleon rounds his desk and gestures for Illya to stand as well. The Russian complies.

“I cannot recall the last time someone actually caring for me,” Napoleon starts, then being brave, he takes both of Illya’s hands in his. “It’s a little unsettling. Made me a little nervous.”

The feeling in Illya’s chest tightens. They are confronting their fears straight on. But it’s a good thing, Ilya figures. Rubbing his thumbs on Napoleon’s knuckles, Illya pulls him in closer until their chests are almost touching.

“Solo,” Illya breathes, “would it be better for you if I had said you’re a terrible spy and that I hate you? That I do not care?”

Napoleon grins sheepishly. “Well, I am a terrible spy. You’d told me this before.”

Illya’s mouth twists. “I am being serious.”

Napoleon contemplates telling Illya he is a terrible liar, that he had overheard him telling Gaby this, before deciding not to. 

“What’s on your mind?”

Napoleon’s mind had drifted off again. He realises Illya’s talking to him when he waves a hand in front of his face.

“Cowboy? Your mind is somewhere else,” Illya suggests but Napoleon refutes him.

“No, I’m here.”

And then, abruptly, he offers Illya his apology.

“My behaviour that night. It was uncalled for.”

Though a little awkward, his sincerity is clear, and Illya knows Napoleon well enough to understand this. Guilt is an emotion the American doesn’t handle too well, and like always, Illya is there to assure him that all is all right. Usually, the feeling melts away easily but this time, Napoleon finds himself needing more reassurance than ever.

”I’m sorry, again, Peril,” Napoleon repeats himself, “though you must know why I’d done it.”

Illya nods and smiles. One of his large hands has already snake up the back of Napoleon’s neck, curling around it, and the other is grasping his arm. Napoleon’s, previously holding on to Illya’s wrists, settles against the Russian’s hips. Napoleon hesitates for a moment, of what he wants to say, but figures there is no point in holding back any longer.

“You and me,” he gestures a hand between them, “it’s more than just caring for each other, or am I wrong?”

“You are right, it’s more,” Illya says, his cheeks flushing at his admission, then fumbles, “but this is not encouraged, in KGB, probably a very bad idea.”

Napoleon’s forehead wrinkles hearing that. “You’re not messing with my head again, Kuryakin.”

“Not my intention. Just stating the facts.”

For a long moment, they just stand there in silence, watching each other, perhaps reading one another’s mind. Illya still has his hold on Napoleon, one hand caressing his nape, the other tracing the fading bruises that mar his handsome face, and Napoleon lets himself enjoy Illya’s touches. None of them notice that outside, darkness has converged on the city until Napoleon sees light from outside the window playing across Illya’s gorgeous features. It’s easy to be entranced by him. In fact, if he is honest, he probably had been right from the start.

“So what do you suggest we do about this situation between us?” Napoleon asks, finally breaking the amiable silence, but before he could say anything else, Illya has leaned in, pressing his lips on Napoleon’s, takes him by surprise. But the kiss is over as soon as it had started; too chaste, too soon for Napoleon’s liking. Unsatisfied and wanting more, because he is a greedy man and never settles for less, he pulls Illya down so he could kiss him again, this time ensuring the kiss lasts even longer than their initial one. Napoleon’s move catches Illya off-guard, gasps when Napoleon bites down on his lower lip, but soon he gets into the rhythm, kissing Napoleon until he is left breathless.

“I hope you are very much encouraged now,” Napoleon sputters afterward. He is panting, and Illya’s lips are swollen red, cheeks pink, and the entire thing is just overwhelming, Napoleon has to hide his face on Illya’s shoulder, embarrassed. But when Illya’s fingers start threading his hair, Napoleon looks up at him once again.

There is a light growing in Illya’s eyes.

“So this is okay?” Napoleon asks, hopeful.

Illya nods. “Do not make me regret this, understand?” he warns, but it is half-hearted and teasing, and the American only smiles, mutters _'you’re so easy to love, Peril’_ , and Illya’s heart swells.

Napoleon’s dream is real after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't know what this is but I hope you liked the fic. :) It started out as various little ficlets which I combined into one. Mistakes are all mine.


End file.
